


I fall to pieces when you softly call my name

by AngstySuperSoldierGodmother



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Coping, Fluff and Angst, Hallucinations, Insight, M/M, Mentions of Natasha Romanov - Freeform, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Self-Hatred, Steve Rogers Feels, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, a whole lot of angst guys, almost forgot, bucky lives up to his ghost reputation and he pulls the batman thing on steve a couple of times, it hurts, jesus this is already sounding like a crackfic I swear it isn't, mentions of Sam Wilson - Freeform, on steve's part that eventually just leads to, steve is an angsty super soldier, steve is struggling to reconcile this bucky with past bucky and well, this is no picnic, this is nothing but manpain don't let me mislead you, try and stop me as I turn Forrest Gump into a stucky allegory, wait is it taboo to mention batman if this is a marvel fandom thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:39:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2059617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstySuperSoldierGodmother/pseuds/AngstySuperSoldierGodmother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I need to let you go."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I fall to pieces when you softly call my name

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story ever so I'm sorry if there were mistakes.. I went over it and I don't think I made too many, but I'll come back to revise it later just in case.
> 
> Inspired by this beautiful art http://be-n-zo.tumblr.com/post/90059646800/bucky-x-steve-x-bucky-steves-first-lover-and (I have no idea how to do the fancy link on this site, sorry!)
> 
> Was supposed to only be, like, 7 paragraphs long and waay more to the point, but...

Steve has always faced the right side of the bed. It’s probably some sort of tic, an unconscious reminder of the old days in Brooklyn, because Bucky always preferred the right side of the small mattress for one reason or another. And watching Bucky lay on the bed until his eyes gave out always lulled Steve into a peaceful sleep.

 

******

 

Steve knew it wouldn't be easy.

He knew the second he stared into the eyes of the man he used to know as his best friend, as he stood on a bridge and articulated his own name as if it was a strange thing. “Bucky”. Said in such a dry way Steve could've sworn it was the first time the sound had rolled off the man's tongue and parted his lips. As if he hadn't spent 21 years of his life responding to it, giving it out to people when they asked what he went by.

Steve knew it wouldn't be easy just like he knew it wouldn't be the same, and it made his chest tighten and a lump form in his throat because those eyes, in a different time so bright and full of life now seemed empty. Weary. Heavy with a sadness that lay deep within the man that wore his best friend's face, from years and years that Steve could not take away.

_"His heart, once capable of inspiring others so completely, could no longer inspire so much as itself. It beat now only out of habit. It beat now only because it could."_

Steve read that in a book, once. One of the many books that Sam had handed over for him to read so he could "catch up with the times". In the novel, the line is used to describe the main characters' hero, a professor and washed up novelist that Steve trusted only needed to find inspiration again before he could surprise everyone and get back in the game.

Steve gave himself a second to ponder over the words, a flash of electric blue irises making its way into his mind before shame found its way, in a similar fashion, inside Steve's chest and bled, until it made his entire body dense with self-disgust, urging him to toss the small book aside.

He didn't touch it again, but he found the words echoing in his head late at night, and himself turning over the bed restlessly, mouthing out the words into the darkness.

There were a lot of things Steve felt ashamed for.

 

******

 

One of the hardest things to handle, Steve learned, were Bucky's nightmares.

Hardly a night went by in which Steve wasn’t startled awake by a bone chilling scream or loud noise coming from the adjoining room. The routine was always the same. Steve would hurry into Bucky’s room to find him thrashing, howling, _crying_.  Clawing at the sheets, at the walls, at Steve. Pleading with a choked up voice for whatever his subconscious was torturing him with to _stop,_ _just stop, please—_ while Steve grabbed at Bucky’s wrists, dodged the punches and repeated his friend’s name over and over again. Sometimes it sounded like a command, other times like a prayer.

How long the episodes lasted could never be predicted. It could range from mere minutes to hours. Until dawn.

It left them both exhausted and Steve wished, selfishly, that Bucky would let him stay over the night. He remembered when they were both but a pair of kids from Brooklyn, they would always have each other’s back, always. And Bucky might’ve been great at looking after Steve when he got sick, but Steve was just as brilliant at handling Bucky when he had nightmares. Steve took pride in it. In the way Bucky would curl around Steve and hold him, let him stroke his hair and neck softly with long, bony fingers. And then Steve would let Bucky murmur his troubles into Steve’s chest—afraid that Steve got really bad one day and he could do nothing but watch as he died, afraid one of these days there just wouldn’t be enough to eat, there just wouldn’t be enough for rent and the landlord would kick them out in the middle of winter, afraid Steve would get into another stupid fight and this time Bucky wouldn’t be able to get there in time (“Really, Steve, you need to stop doing that.”), afraid of the war--- until his words faded into an indecipherable slur  and moments later Steve could hear the even breathing coming from the body pressed up against him and he could finally get some shut-eye himself, knowing that Bucky rested in a peaceful slumber.

He wished he could do that now, he wished Bucky would allow him to. But the answer was always the same. Steve would sit on the edge of the bed, watch Bucky as he took a moment to regulate his breathing, then he would muster up the courage to quietly ask him the same question he asked every night “Do you want me to stay?”

Bucky would sit there, still, sweat still pearling his forehead and his temples, mussing up his hair and making some of the strands stick to his face. He would never answer verbally, he would simply keep his gaze fixed to a point on the wall and shake his head minutely before rolling to the side facing away from Steve.

Steve would then decide on whether it was late enough that he could start his morning run or if there were still a few hours to kill staring blankly at his ceiling.

 

******

 

Day to day interactions weren't any easier.

Bucky may have agreed to share an apartment with Steve, but that didn’t mean he was up and ready to get _chummy._

Steve thought about this, even now as he sat across from Bucky and watched him eat a bowl of corn flakes quietly, eyes never leaving the plate. Thought about the mistakes he’d made early on when he was too consumed in his own happiness and relief to consider that the fact that Bucky had moved in with Steve and agreed not to disappear didn’t necessarily mean he trusted him.

Steve remembered the state Bucky had been in when he finally found him. Homeless, malnourished and completely lost. Not to mention he smelled and looked like he hadn’t had a change of clothes in months, let alone a shower.

Steve hadn’t threatened, hadn’t tried coercing him or blackmailing him in any way, but Bucky still might’ve felt like he had no other choice. With the world telling him he and Steve used to be thick as thieves and without HYDRA to tell him what to do and nothing to fall back on in this strange new world, Bucky might have felt like this is what he had to do.

Bucky might not want to be here, at all.

This is mainly the reason why Steve had stopped asking Bucky to wait when he deposited his dishes in the sink and receded into his room, the door clicking softly behind him.

 

******

 

Steve had bad dreams, too. He refused to call them nightmares because that’s the word he used to refer to Bucky’s violent night terrors. These dreams didn’t make Steve wake up in the middle of the night yelling, crying or fighting an unknown force with tooth and nail.

Instead, they woke him with a slight start, left him feeling cold and clammy and with an emptiness that he couldn’t quite explain, and with a feeling of experiencing a bottomless free fall, destined to go on forever.

They were always the same, only varying in minimal things like something different Steve would say or something he wouldn’t.

It was always the figure of a young man. He wore a dark khaki military uniform that looked like it had been made simply so he could wear it, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders; the buttons that decorated it shining an impeccable golden. His hair was neatly combed and slick with pomade, parted to the side. Steve knew the uniform. He wondered where the young man’s hat could be.

The thing that never changed was the way the man looked at Steve, intently, almost expectantly. Steve wasn’t sure what the man could possibly expect from him, so he would try talking to him about different things, about how he felt and how every day the world seemed a little bit less strange.

Mostly he would just tell him he missed him.

Sometimes the man would smile kindly. Sometimes he would even talk, and Steve would be torn between his longing for that voice and the despair that always came after he woke up, realizing he couldn’t remember the sound of it.

“Steve..”

“Don’t.” Steve gritted out.

The man was always gentle, kind, if not a bit unsettling with his unwavering gaze. He carried a warmth with him that Steve had long forgotten. A feeling of safety and familiarity, and Steve realized the more inviting the man was, the more it hurt to wake up and realize it was all a dream.

 

******

 

 “You wanna watch a movie?” Steve says, trying to feign nonchalance as he cuts a couple of tomatoes for the sandwiches he’s making.

He hears the steps behind him stop and Steve glances over his shoulder for a moment to see Bucky, metal hand half-way inside the Bimbo package, completely still. Steve had found Bucky always declined going with him to the groceries but was always eager to help him put the things away or help him make lunch in compensation.

Steve swallows and tries concentrating on the task at hand, trying not to let on just how anxious he feels by asking the question, afraid Bucky would freak out and take refuge in his room the way he did when he didn’t know how to handle a certain situation. Steve had realized that Bucky’s room had become a sort of a safe haven for Bucky, a shelter and a space he could call his own and Steve recognized this was important for him, therefore, refrained from ever entering without his exclusive permission (night terrors being the exception to the rule).

“They’re DVDS” he continued schooling his tone into something that sounded more like an absentminded suggestion than the huge step into bonding with his estranged friend that Steve felt it was “I rented a couple of them on my way back from the groceries. Thought it would be a nice idea to pass the time doing something different. It’s nice because we don’t have to go out to watch them, you know, we can just... sit in the living room and watch them there and then go on with our usual business.”

Steve’s words hung in the air, the only sound in the small kitchen being that of him cutting the last tomato in ridiculously thin slices.

“Ok.”

Steve snapped his head back so fast he thought he might’ve cut himself with the knife he was still wielding in his right hand. He felt the surprised “Really?” on the tip of his tongue and he bit his cheek in order to suppress the instinct to say it. Bucky shifted his weight slightly, obviously uncomfortable with Steve’s staring, so he smiled at him and turned back to his tomato, which was already done anyway.

“Ok.” He said, and he wasn’t quite able to conceal the utter joy in his voice when he said it. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I rented a few. Choose whichever you want.”

They each went back to a comfortable silence, each doing their part in making a small pile of sandwiches which Steve then took to the living room and placed on the small table between the couch and the TV. They both ended up sitting on the couch, only a couple of inches preventing their arms from touching.

Bucky ended up picking one at random, since he had no idea what the movies were about, anyway. In all honesty, neither did Steve, but they were on the list Sam had concocted for them that were apparently “safe”, so he didn’t think much about it.

The movie was called “Forrest Gump” and even though he felt like sometimes the movie made a few references that he was supposed to understand and didn’t, he couldn’t help but enjoy the simple story of the life of a man who was meant to do extraordinary things in his life despite extraordinary odds. No one thought that man would amount to much, but he ended up having a different way of looking at things that let him live his life to the fullest and accomplish amazing things.

Steve decided he liked the movie. He wasn’t sure what Bucky thought about it, though.

Aside from a few frowns, purse of lips or raised eyebrows, Bucky’s face remained neutral throughout most of the film.

They were at the part where Jenny leaves Forrest without warning after spending the night with him in his mother’s house.

“So Jenny really did love Forrest?”

Steve turns to look at Bucky with surprise, his friend sporting a slight frown without taking his eyes away from the screen. Steve remembers he’s been asked a question.

“Y-Yeah.. I think she does.”

Steve thinks for a second this is somehow not the right answer because Bucky’s frown only deepens.

“Then why did she leave him?” A moment of silence, then “Forrest already made it clear he loved her.”

Steve glances at the now empty plate in front of them on the coffee table. Crumbs and pieces of vegetable scattered across it as he thinks about a way to answer “I think… maybe she didn’t feel worthy of Forrest’s love.”

Bucky blinks and his eyes leave the TV screen, opting for his left knee (not really looking at Steve, Bucky still had difficulty doing that sometimes) but in his general direction “Do you think Forrest thought she was worthy?”

And Steve felt himself slightly gape for a second, because this had to be a record of some kind in their new relationship because Steve couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to sustain a conversation with Bucky for this long, and it was _over a movie._  if he took a wild guess, he was pretty sure he’d find the answer would be some time in the forties.

“…Yeah, Buck, I think he did.”

“Why?” Bucky asked, and Steve couldn’t find anything but true bewilderment in his tone “She’s been nothing but trouble for him from the start. Forrest has had to clean up after her again and again. Why doesn’t he just give up?”

A beat.

“Well.. I don’t think Forrest thinks that’s her fault.”

“Why?” Disbelief.

Steve shrugs, and he doesn’t even know where the words are coming from anymore, the conversation seems to have acquired a life of its own and the movie has long been forgotten even as Forrest starts running across the entire country.

“She was deeply hurt, Buck. When we’re hurt, I guess it changes things forever and I think for her, she just felt like.. like she’s done so many things, she’s not deserving of Forrest’s love” he turns to look at Bucky and finds he’s looking back at him. “I guess he just.. he knows there’s more to her than what the hurt inside made her do. He knows her since they were kids.. I think he would know.”

Bucky’s lips have remained firmly pressed together, but he’s still holding Steve’s gaze. When he speaks, his voice is slightly fainter than it was before.

“How does he know there’s anything left of the girl he used to know, anymore?”

Steve’s lips part slightly, but he finds they have become dry and suddenly he’s at a loss for words. It feels like a dangerous dance they’re doing around each other, like they’re in a trance, communicating through a secret language and finally saying what has gone unsaid for too long, now. Bucky has allowed him this undeclared opening and Steve feels like it’s both that and a test and If he fails, this strange little door will close and remain that way forever.

Steve feels his shoulders shrug one more time and he says the only thing that comes to mind, the only thing that makes sense to him.

“’Cause It’s still Jenny.”

Bucky looks at him for the longest time and Steve stares back, hoping this was the right answer. After what seems like an eternity but was probably really only a moment, Bucky looks away and Steve isn’t sure how to interpret the look in his eyes when he stares down at the coffee table.

Steve suddenly becomes aware of his own heartbeat and he reaches out toward him with one hand.

“Bucky…”

But Bucky is suddenly up and he’s striding around the couch and towards his bedroom door. Steve takes his hand back and hears the door shut.

 

******

 

Steve is reaching out to him, out to the young man, the figure that only seems a few feet away but that he can’t seem to reach no matter how hard he tries.

He just wants to feel the warmth of a cheek beneath his fingers.

Wants to feel the softness of the hair and take comfort in the familiar touch.

“Please..” he whimpers pathetically, looking into the man’s eyes and feeling a knot form in his throat as he stretches his hand a bit farther, being so close to that touch that would bring him solace he can almost feel it on his fingertips.

“Bucky…”

His eyes snap open at the feeling of another presence in the room and he gasps, eyes darting from one corner to another and ignoring what has become the usual discomfort of feeling like being in a free-fall after waking up, making him slightly dizzy.

His vision adjusts and he can make out the dark, unmoving silhouette standing in his door frame. Steve startles briefly at the unexpected sight, before his brain catches up with him and his muscles relax, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Bucky…” he says, and he can make out the gleam of his metal arm under the tenuous stream of moonlight coming from his window. He realizes he must’ve made noise in his sleep and probably woke him. He mentally kicks himself for waking Bucky up in one of the rare nights he actually seemed to be getting some goodnight sleep.

Bucky is still to move an inch from his place by Steve’s door, and even though it’s too dark to tell, Steve knows he’s got his eyes fixed on him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He finally says, not knowing what else to say.

There’s a moment of silence before Bucky responds.

“You didn’t wake me.” Steve feels his heart make an impressive flip at the sound of Bucky’s voice. Though Steve considered the previous evening to have been a complete fiasco, he couldn’t deny there had been a breakthrough in their formerly borderline non-existent communication. Steve had feared that after what happened, Bucky would go back to barely responding to Steve, if he responded at all.

“Oh.” He comes up with.

“You called my name.” Bucky says and Steve feels his blood run cold. “You said Bucky.”

Steve didn’t know how to respond. He was still getting over the fact that he had made enough noise in his sleep to prompt Bucky to check up on him. He was under the impression that he didn’t make noise during his dreams. He admitted tonight’s dream had stirred stronger emotions than usual, but he never would’ve thought it would be enough to rouse anybody—or that it would be strong enough for him to call anybody’s name.

“I was… dreaming.” He says, in the form of a lousy explanation, noting the way his voice sounded raspier than before. Or maybe he was only noticing now that clarity had been somewhat shocked into him.

“A nightmare?” Bucky asks, sounding slightly flabbergasted at what must have seemed like an unexpected turn of events. Steve being the one having a nightmare, for a change?

Steve still doesn’t like to use the term “nightmare” for what he experiences at night. He knows what Bucky relates to the word—imagined blood and murder and hurt—and Steve can’t bring himself to link those things to his own visions. Because Bucky, even in his subconscious, would never do anything of the sort. Not to Steve.

Still, Steve can’t deny that the dream was unpleasant. He decides not to commit.

“Something like that.”

Bucky stands in the doorway in silence and Steve wishes he could see his face. He wishes he could know what he was thinking. If he thought Steve was insane. If he found him as puzzling as Steve sometimes feels about Bucky or if he wonders what his dreams could possibly be about.

Steve snaps out of his musings and Bucky’s gone.

 

******

 

Steve wakes up the next morning to the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. He half expects to find Sam sitting behind the kitchen counter, helping himself to a cup of joe and waiting for him to get up so he can warn him about Natasha coming over to kick his butt for isolating himself from the both of them for such a long time. Steve still feels guilty about that.

The only reason Steve was sure Natasha hadn’t already barged through his front door (or more accurately, sneaked through his bedroom window while he slept so he could wake up to her sitting comfortably on the edge of his bed having already wired the entirety of his apartment) was because of Sam. When Steve had expressed his desire to see if he could handle this by himself for a while, Sam had placed a hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye and asked “Are you sure?”. Steve had nodded and Sam, bless his soul, had nodded understandingly despite the arch of his eyebrows that indicated that he wasn’t 100% alright with the idea and said “If that’s what you need. I’ll see what I can do”.  Steve knew he was referring to Natasha with the last part and not himself.

That’s why he was surprised when he found Bucky pouring coffee into a mug next to a bowl of corn flakes with a spoon already inside, milk at the center of the counter.

Steve knew Bucky had been aware of his presence long before he snapped his eyes up to meet his, before they flickered back to the coffee maker.

“G’mornin’” said Steve, mouth still a little numb from sleep.

Bucky nodded sharply before taking a seat across from where he had just served, digging a spoon into a matching bowl of cereal on his side.

Steve stood there for a moment longer before assuming that the serving was meant for him and sinking down on the chair in front of what he guessed was breakfast. Bucky seemed to relax at that and resumed pouring milk into his bowl.

You couldn’t really blame Steve for being surprised. They usually made their own breakfasts (Steve had given up on making them both breakfast after Bucky had repeatedly and systematically ignored his bacon and eggs in favor of preparing himself a bowl of cereal, which seemed to be Bucky’s breakfast of choice. Steve believed it was because of the simplicity and the little time it required both serving and finishing before he could go back to his room. Preparing a bowl of corn flakes for him had the same results.).

Steve poured milk into his bowl and stirred his cereal.

“Uh… thanks.” He said, smiling lightly at Bucky and catching his eye before the latter blinked down into his spoon and frowned slightly.

“I... I know you like the other stuff better.” He said, still staring at the spoon like he didn’t approve of its existence. “I didn’t know how to.”

Steve assumed that by “other stuff” Bucky meant eggs, oatmeal, omelets toast and the kind of stuff he usually made for himself in the mornings while Bucky digged into a bowl.

The implication that Bucky had wanted to make him breakfast that he liked but hadn’t known how to, made his heart flutter in his chest. He smiled as he remembered being nudged awake by a grinning Bucky who had made them both scrambled eggs and a boiled sausage, on a rare day in which they could afford the luxury of such a breakfast. Remembered exchanging jubilant looks across the table as they grinned like idiots mid-chew and then sitting back on their respective chairs in satisfaction. Bucky had always been the one who knew his way around the kitchen, back in the day. Steve was always impressed with how he could manage to make the most out of what they had and make it actually taste good, even if it was regrettably meager. “Admit it” he’d once told him, with his trademark lop-sided teasing smirk as they both digged into one of his most recent culinary miracles born from last night’s leftovers. “You’d be lost without me.”

 “No,  this is… this is really good, I actually really like Corn Flakes.” He emphasized his last statement by enthusiastically shoving a spoonful into his mouth, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes while he nodded “In fact, I think I’m gonna start taking to eating more of this in the morning. Probably more healthy, anyways.”

Bucky gave Steve a look that said he probably knew he was full of shit, but Steve thought he saw a corner of his mouth curl upwards slightly at his efforts.

Bucky started waking up early in the morning to prepare two sets of cereal bowls and two cups of black coffee from then on. Bucky would wait for Steve to get up and then they would both eat together in comfortable silence.

Steve couldn’t say he minded much laying off on eggs for a while.

 

******

 

Steve felt a slight shift in the air. It wasn't anything too radical; it was a small, delicate thing. Like the way he found Bucky staring at him more and more often now. Like he was gauging him in some way. Like there was something he hadn't noticed, hadn't considered about Steve that he was just starting to make sense of.

He wasn't as reluctant to talk around Steve, either. And even though their longest conversation was still the one that had taken place in what Steve had now taken to refer to in his mind as "The movie night incident", he seemed alright with answering simple questions and sometimes even asking questions of his own. He was still too quick to look away for Steve's taste, but it wasn't like a few months prior, when he absolutely refused to meet Steve's gaze and even doing something as simple as a nod or shake of his head almost seemed to cause him physical pain.

Right now, Bucky is sitting on the edge of the couch and Steve is trying to figure out how to respond to an e-mail from Nat from the other edge.

"Steve?" he hears the hesitant voice from the other end. He looks over to Bucky who's looking back at him before he turns back to the laptop in front of him, knowing staring for too long would make Bucky uncomfortable.

"Yeah?" he answers, trying on his casual facade again.

"Are your nightmares like mine?"

Steve stops on his insistent clicking of the back arrow for a moment.

He finds himself at a loss of what to respond. He knew for a fact that his dreams were nothing like the ones Bucky had—but what could he say? _“No, Bucky, actually they’re quite different. I usually have visions of you—well, of your younger self.. your other self? Staring at me while I stare back and I talk and hope he’ll answer and feel like shit later when I realize I sometimes wish I didn’t wake up at all”?_

Not a chance in hell.

So he tried the ambiguous approach for size, again.

“..I don’t think so.” He finally said, feeling like his voice came out way louder than it should’ve after sitting in silence for so long.

He turned to Bucky again and was surprised to find his eyes trained on him, an intensity in his gaze that he only ever saw while he was asleep, these days. It disappeared as soon as Steve saw it, though, and all too soon Bucky was turning his head the other way while Steve felt his hands hover back over the keyboard of his laptop on instinct. He’s not sure if he imagined the low murmur coming Bucky’s way, barely noticeable, and resembling something like a quiet “Good.”

 

******

 

Steve paced in front of the figure that stood before him. It was one of those times in which the other man refused to do much else but stare. Stare at Steve. Like he was expecting something. Like he's asked Steve an important question and Steve missed it and now he's just waiting for him to respond.

And Steve doesn't have an answer. He doesn't have an answer because nothing he says is _the right answer_.

He finally stopped pacing, coming to a stop right in front of the vision wearing his best friend's face.

Why do I keep seeing you?

What do you want from me?

Why do you always stare?

Wish you’d let me hold you.

_Wish you’d say something._

"Steve..." and it sounds like a soft breeze that echoes off the walls of the room that has become his mind. Steve's face twists up in a grimace at the sound of it.

"No, not that."

Anything but that.

He couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the sound of his name said like that, with that voice, in that tone.

He felt like he was going crazy.

Why do you come if you’re only going to stand there and look at me?

All you do is look.

I wish you’d go away.

_I wish you were here._

Steve wakes up with the feeling he's been talking in his sleep again. His suspicions are confirmed when he stays awake for a while longer and he eventually hears the door from the next room click almost imperceptibly.

 

******

 

“Shh, Bucky, shh, it was just a dream. It was just a dream, Bucky.”

Steve had a tight hold of Bucky’s shoulders as the latter tried to regulate his breathing, one hand gripping Steve’s bicep to keep himself grounded.

He seems to slowly come back to himself and take in his surroundings and Steve lets him realize where he is by himself, all the while ignoring the throbbing pain on his left cheekbone and his abdomen where Bucky had managed to unconsciously deliver a few blows.

All his hopes of the dim moonlight seeping through Bucky’s window not being enough to reveal the damage that had been done to his face plummeted when Bucky finally regained enough control to look up at Steve, his face turning even paler than it already seemed to be.

“Did I—“ he rasped out.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Steve immediately interrupted, the heart of conviction in his tone as his hands squeezed at Bucky’s shoulders, as if, by doing so, he could somehow will Bucky into believing his words.

Bucky didn’t meet his gaze; instead staring at the place where his hand was still holding onto Steve’s arm, like it was betraying him by doing so, like he was incapable of pulling away.

Steve began to say something when Bucky interrupted him.

“Do I..?” he cleared his throat and swallowed, and then tried again “Do I always.. do I.. is this what always happens when you..?”

Bucky was having trouble stating his question, but that didn’t mean Steve didn’t understand what he was trying to say. He pursed his lips while he considered what he could say. Should he lie to him? Or would that only make it worse? Perhaps Bucky already knew the answer to his own question. He probably did, because before Steve could answer, Bucky was already making another question.

“Why do you do it, then?” It’s brusque and slightly choked, like he’s forcing the words out of his throat and Steve hates hearing such a sound come from Bucky.

 “It’s not so bad.” He says softly, never letting his gaze stray from the man in front of him, his eyes sincere “I can handle it.”

Bucky’s face scrunches up like that’s the last thing he wanted to hear.

Steve bites his lip as he feels the silence stretch between them, neither one of them looking at the other, exactly. Neither one of them knowing how to deal with the situation at hand.

“Do you want me to..?” Steve begins, but his voice thins out as he watches Bucky looking right back at him. His eyes widen slightly and the flash of guilt that passes through them tells Steve all he needs to know.

Steve smiles warmly at him, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze before getting up from the bed to leave; deciding against finishing a question he knows would only hurt Bucky further to answer. Steve is halfway at the door when Bucky speaks up, suddenly.

“You would like it if I said yes, wouldn’t you?”

Steve stops dead on his tracks, feeling his heart drop. He takes a deep breath, before he slowly turns to look at Bucky, who’s still seated on his bed exactly the way Steve left him. He’s looking at Steve with a combination of feelings that Steve can’t really pinpoint with how quickly they flash across his face. He opens his mouth to say something, but Steve interrupts.

“I don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for.”

And with that, he leaves.

 

******

 

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"What happens with Forrest and Jenny at the end?"

"He marries her."

 

******

 

"Do you think it would help me if we slept together?" Bucky asks one day, handing Steve a paper towel "With my nightmares, I mean."

Steve splutters slightly at the wording, but he definitely does _not_ blush, goddammit, he is a _grown man_. He takes the towel Bucky handed to him and starts drying out the glass he'd just washed before depositing it in the other sink for Bucky to then take and place in one of the cupboards. He decides to focus on answering Bucky's question to distract himself from the heat he suddenly felt creeping up the back of his neck.

"Not if you're forcing yourself, it wouldn't. It would be counter-productive, then."

There's a pause in which the only sound that can be heard is of running water as Steve washes the rest of the dirty dishes.

"Would it help yours?" Bucky asks.

Steve frowns slightly but refrains to look back at the other man he can feel boring holes into the back of his head.

"I don't need help with mine." he lies "They don't... hurt me."

This time, the silence stretches on for much longer, to the point Steve thinks Bucky has left him in the kitchen on his own, until he hears his voice.

"Yes, they do."

By the time Steve turns to look at Bucky, he's already gone.

 

******

 

"Steve?"

"Yeah, Buck?"

"Did sleeping together... was that something that helped before?"

"...Yeah. Yeah, it did."

 

******

 

Steve is finally drifting to sleep when he feels the right side of the bed sink behind him, mattress creaking in protest. A moment passes as he feels the weight that has settled behind him shift slightly before stilling.

A beat.

"I don't know how to be your Bucky." He hears Bucky confess to the back of his head, his tone apologetic.

Steve has always faced the right side of the bed. It’s probably some sort of tic, an unconscious reminder of the old days in Brooklyn, because Bucky would always prefer the right side of the small mattress for one reason or another. And watching Bucky lay on the bed until his eyes gave out always lulled Steve into a peaceful sleep.

He turns his body towards the familiar source of heat next to him and opens his eyes, and, for a second, it's like he's gone back in time. It's the same face, the same mouth, the same impossibly blue eyes staring back into his own through the dark.

Except he hasn't.

And it's still 2015, and he still saw the person he loved most in this world fall to his death. He still crashed a plane into the ocean. He still came back to life by what seemed like a dark miracle into a changed, utterly unrecognizable world, deserted of any familiarity.. only to find he had failed that same person he believed to have died all those years ago even more so.

And for the first time, Steve realizes that's ok.

Looking at Bucky right now, he knows he has everything he could ever need right here, at less than an arm's reach, warming the right side of his bed, as always. The moonlight washes over him and Steve can see his eyes still shine with a distinct glimmer. It's a different kind of glimmer from the one of that 21 year old boy from Brooklyn, who had the ability to charm the pants off of anybody he set his mind to with the flash of a smile and a few easy words.

But it shines.

"I don't want the Bucky from 1945." he whispers back, even though his mouth feels dry and a painful knot has settled in his throat "I just want Bucky. I'll take him any way I can get'im."

He thinks he sees Bucky's eyes become glassy, and he closes the distance between them and envelopes Bucky in a tight embrace, feeling the other man's arms wrap around his own body and hearing a quivery sigh against his neck. He blinks and finds the familiar figure resting over Bucky's shoulder. He might've said it, but Steve thinks it was really just in his head. He swallows thickly, meeting the figure's unrelenting gaze as Bucky shakes in his arms, claws at the back of his shirt. 

"He needs me, Buck" he chokes out, although his lips are not moving. He can feel his throat closing up, emotion raw and aching in his chest.

"I have to let you go."

The figure gives him a small, sad--almost tired-- smile, like he knew this would happen all along. Like the reason he'd been hanging around for so long was because he'd been waiting for Steve to say it. Vaguely, Steve recognizes it shouldn't be possible to tell with such detail the slick of his hair, or the slight crinkle in the corner of his eyes, or the dimples on his cheeks through the dark.

He sees the figure draw closer now, so close Bucky should be able to feel him against his back, now. He's so close his nose touches Steve's, and Steve closes his eyes.

Steve’s not surprised when he opens them and he’s gone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lana Del Rey's "Dark Paradise" is basically this fic's anthem, so I really recommend listening to it :)
> 
> I just really wanna thank iainkillsrobots (both here and on tumblr) because she gave me the courage to actually upload this <3 you're so awesome! C': <3
> 
> Thank ya'll so much for reading!


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